In the quarrel between progressives and conservatives, so many of the former believe that we are mired in a nostalgia for white privilege or some Norman Rockwell painting of an America that exists only as a furtive dream.

Before men wore their political posturings on their sleeves, they worked and struggled, lived, reproduced, and died – with the state serving as only a distant backdrop for their exertions.  Indeed, wisdom has no meaning if the memory of such a past is denigrated, and we swim only in the turbulent rapids of Becoming.  Progressives, by their very nature, have little use for the past, except as a bogeyman to scare children with.  Our Founders’ Masterpiece is now airbrushed as some primitive horror wholly inferior to the Homogenous City – a gilded ghost coaxed from a barbarous age.

As we nod our heads, click our tongues, and resign to the ash heap of history our fleeting memory of the Christian West, do not be surprised when everything you have ever loved is put to the sword – as you lie weeping beyond recovery, beside the dismal Waters of Babylon.